


A Cure?

by R_S



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_S/pseuds/R_S
Summary: Robin goes shopping for clothes and information in Mock Town.





	A Cure?

**Author's Note:**

> *author has ptsd... so... yea...
> 
> I do not own One Piece

The bell chimes above the door, as Nico Robin's entered the quaint little shop. Racks of clothes, shelves of shoes, and all manner of jewelry put out on display. To normal citizens, a welcoming, homelike environment.

 

Robin's eyes sweep the room.

 

She never had a homelike environment...

 

“May I help you?”

Turned on the spot, and if she'd been ten years younger, she'd have raised her arms and broken his neck.

“Did I startle you? My apologies.”

Heart racing, and sweat's broken out on the woman's face. The tips of Robin's fingers tingle, and she's rubbed them discretely together to keep them from falling numb. “Not at all.” Of course she'd never tell a complete stranger she'd been scared. Make an open _admission_ of weakness. She can't be sure this man is really just a Shop Owner. That they don't dabble in Bounty Hunting, or that they haven't already recognized and marked her. The picture on her Bounty Poster may be twenty years old, but that didn't mean someone _intuitive_ wouldn't notice.

“Miss?”

 

She'll allow the man to bring her items for purchase, rather than wandering the rows. Better for her to remain in place, arms crossed and hung on each shoulder. Robin's bloomed eyes into each corner. Found a rifle under the counter, and a set of keys hung on a hook just around the wall where the Owner took payments. No outward sign that she's been given away. Of course, there doesn't need to be any reason. Any explanation for the cold sweat on her face if she's drifted off to sleep. Something she's not done for some days... six? She can last far longer. She _will!_ “Thankyou.” Paying in exchange for a gleaming white gem she knows far exceeds the cost of the items she's purchased. “By the way, might you be able to tell me the name of this island?”

“Eh, I thou' ya looked out'a town.” An accent. She'd been sure this man had one, and was doing a professionalism in his hiding it. “Island's name is Jaya.” He's squinted at her. “Here, ya be'ter be careful. _Pirates_ 're stayin' at the Villa, the Super Rookie-”

“Thank you.” Lifted her bags of shopping from the counter, Robin's tipped down the brim of her black hat. White rope woven into the hem. Hurried from the Shop, and around one corner. Into the shadow of a wood planked building.

 

Stand out of sight, she collects herself. She knows how. Deep breaths.

 

Deep breaths... and _keep_ breathing.

 

Nico Robin's fingers tighten, clutching her shopping bags. Blinking white spots out of her eyes. She's more to buy, and questions to ask people. They'll need _information_ to reach the island located in the Sky, as she's sure now... _does exist_. She'll follow him there, if that's where he wants to go. The man who has a D in his name. Like Saul used to. Cling to his resilience and courage, as he's lent it for anyone to be inspired by.

 

Perhaps it might cure her... one day? Of these rapid, fluttering heartbeats that make her weak and dizzy. Take away the vague but everbuilding sense of terror. That she might cease to wake from dreams overtaken by explosions, and a world on fire, covered in cold sheets of sweat... but... what is she dreaming of?

  
Robin places one foot in front of the other. Carried herself forward. She'll ask in the bar, for information... She can do that, to distract herself. Shaking away any ideas that she might get better, because it's too much to hope.

 

Too much even to dream.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
